


The Affair

by AnyaElizabeth



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Infidelity, Multi, epilogue compliance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-23
Updated: 2009-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:10:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyaElizabeth/pseuds/AnyaElizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She kept making the same moves every day as though she were on tracks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Affair

**Author's Note:**

> This, as you may guess from the title, is full of adultery. Lots of adultery. Adultery and marriage break-ups. There is also a Super Sekrit Harry Slash Pairing, because apparently I cannot resist. Started as an attempt to bond with Ginny, who is so easy to hate, but it rather got away from me. Dunno what I think of it.

It was Monday.

Incapable of breaking the early morning routine from her Harpies days, Ginny was up already, wrapped in her dressing gown and standing in the bars of morning light. She was making breakfast, as she always did, a simple task to motivate her in the mornings. She knew that Harry would come down the stairs with the Prophet just as she finished, a tousled, bleary-eyed man-child in a robe that was always creased. He'd go for the coffee mug without looking. Then she'd go up for a shower, and Harry would kiss her and thank her on the way; she'd come downstairs, fresh and dressed, just as he was getting ready to go. A peck on the cheek, a warning about working late, and then she'd get to work.

It was simple. Perfect. Flipping the bacon with one hand and tapping the toaster with her other, she wondered what life would be like without this.

She'd made this routine. She'd carved it out for herself, a slice of happily ever after with a loyal, brave man and three beautiful children. She looked after Harry, he saved the world as usual, and they both... worked.

Except she kept making the same moves every day as though she were on tracks.

Some days she'd need to go out, watch the matches, take interviews, get caught in deathly dull discussions with the Gobstones Club about when she was going to cover the tournament – that was when she felt most like her own woman. She was bright, bubbly, good at her job, excellent with people, they all liked her. Until some dim up-and-coming Quidditch star pointed her out as 'Harry Potter's wife', and then it would be like she'd turned invisible. Everything she did... it was nothing.

Today, she was working at home. Then it was the worst, because her inevitable procrastination had very little outlet; tidying the house, starting the evening meal, ironing Harry's clothes and making Harry's side of the bed and taking Harry_'s_ messages. Making all the plans, because for a man who knew exactly what to do in the face of a Dark Lord Harry was wretched about making personal decisions. Then he'd come home, and he'd ask her how she was, and then he'd rant about the Ministry for an hour and Ginny didn't even mind, because she never had anything to say.

And on the weekend, they'd watch television, and Harry would fall asleep in the afternoon until she sent him to to bed. She'd make a cake, because she'd never been very good at being still, and send it off to the kids. Then they'd go to Sunday lunch at her mother's, and she wasn't quite sure when a warm family gathering had changed to screaming her lungs out at a room full of people who didn't hear.

Ginny was very glad it was Monday, because she had things to do. She had two articles to write, and the backlog of correspondence for both her and Harry was getting alarming again. And it wasn't Sunday, when Harry always seemed to remember from Ron and Hermione what couples should be like.

She didn't know how they'd got into the habit of sex on Sundays. It hadn't always been that way, although it had always been... good, of course it was good, but... not _exactly_ what she wanted. Nowadays it was mechanical but pleasant enough – and of course their sex life was less than wild, they'd been married for twenty years – and for a while she'd see the man she'd loved for her whole life, those bright green eyes and the hands that still touched her like she would break and that _love_ he had, so much love to give, and for a moment she'd think that maybe this time would be the mind-blowing one she'd fantasise about later. Then she would see that slightly desperate look, the one just before he closed his eyes and thought of – whoever he thought of, the cover model of Quidditch Weekly or the long-haired singer on the poster on Al's door, or maybe even someone he knew – and she wanted to stop him. Wanted to say, _it's alright, I don't want to sleep with you either._ But that would be too much of a confession, too much of a crack in the bright veneer. And Harry got upset when she tried to tell him not to try so hard.

Rarely, very rarely, she'd wake up from a nightmare of Tom. He'd nearly done it, nearly scrubbed her out entirely, but dream-Tom would always turn into Harry and the chamber turned to the Burrow and everyone just looked at her, expectantly, as though confused why she hadn't vanished yet for the sake of the Boy Who Lived.

It was going to be an ordinary week. She missed the children. It had been far, far too quiet with Lily gone.

  
*

Then Harry owled her one Friday night, telling her he had to leave the country on urgent business, and he'd be back on Monday. She'd stood in the kitchen, completely blank. He hadn't done this for years, not since his promotion. It was strange and different and Ginny didn't like a break in her routine. She didn't like the thought that there was nothing underneath.

She was unable to think what she'd _do_ without him.

She shook her head, hard, focusing on the pull on her scalp as her hair went wild. How silly, how unlike her. She was strong and independent and she missed him of course, but she was glad of some free time. She could read, she could drink, she could catch up with friends. Life was good.

She firecalled Hermione. She looked stressed and unhappy, and Ron was curled up on the sofa, looking green.

"Go without me," he was saying, and Hermione smiled down at Ginny without properly looking, eyes still on Ron.

"Go to what?" said Ginny.

"Oh, nothing important," said Hermione, the downturned corner of her mouth illuminating the lie brighter than a spotlight. Ginny smiled.

"Yes it _is_," said Ron, shooting Ginny a conspiratorial look through bloodshot eyes. "You've been talking about this for months. You're never going to get as good a chance to network again, you said, see I do listen."

Hermione looked at Ron, agonised, and smiled down apologetically at Ginny.

"What is it?" repeated Ginny.

"A charity ball," said Hermione, still looking stressed but looking at Ginny properly now. "There's an auction and I've got a piece of House-Elf art in, but they don't really need me. It's fine."

"I'm _fine,_ you should go without me. You know I didn't want to come anyway."

"If you need company, I'll come," said Ginny. "Harry Potter's wife buys House-Elf art, that's got to be good press, right?"

"Might make a nice change from Harry Potter's Friend Seen Being Nuts Again," said Hermione. A shared grin, though Ginny couldn't help but feel Hermione had it too good to complain. She had her work and her children and Ron, even though he was such an idiot sometimes and Ginny hadn't ever been sure the two of them would last through the rows. She'd been sure about Harry, though, the perfect gentleman and the earnest father, which showed what she knew. Not that there was anything wrong. Not with them. Just with her. God, what was wrong with her?

"I'd love you to come, Ginny," Hermione continued. "I sent Harry an invite, you know. To his office, in the hopes he'd actually reply. What's he up to?"

"Mysterious Auror business," said Ginny. "Not back until Monday. It's why I called."

"Oh, wow," said Hermione. "It's been a while since he's done that."

Ginny opened her mouth, and froze on the breath in. It _had_ been a long while – not since she'd retired from Quidditch, not since he'd taken the promotion. Harry rarely went out into the field – it was why he'd taken the position, for her, and the kids. Could Harry be _lying_ to her?

But no, to lie to her would suggest a level of awareness that Harry simply didn't have. He was still lying to himself.

"If you're sure," said Hermione. "I mean, Ron's probably right, you know. It will be boring."

"I'm sure we can inject some fun into the proceedings," said Ginny, with a sunny smile. Hermione looked at Ron.

"I'm _fine_," he croaked, before she could ask. "Go and get some batty old coot to dance with you. No younger men though. I'm counting on you, sis, to keep them away from my irresistible wife."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Ginny laughed, but the thought of younger men set her mind into a spiral of wistful fantasy. In her Harpy days, there'd been such an awful lot of attention. She'd been embarassed and uncomfortable at the time, but there had been fanmail, photoshoots, best-selling calendars, and so many young men staring from afar. Now, she felt... unsexy. Was this just another part of being older? Of marriage, of responsibility, of all the things she'd chosen, and ought to be grateful for? She was wretched, spoilt and selfish.

"Robes or dresses?"

"Dresses, dress robes or suits," said Hermione, smiling. "Do you remember the days when a wizard wouldn't be caught dead in trousers? Come over and I'll show you my outfit, if you like."

Ginny grinned.

"That'd be great," she said. "I'll just go and grab a dress."

"Oh, God," said Ron. "Don't you know that two girls getting ready together takes ten times longer than two on their own?"

Ginny rolled her eyes and pulled her head out of the fire. It was testament to the lack of excitement in her life, that her heart was racing at the thought of a Ministry gala. Then again, a girly night – maybe that was exactly what she needed.

She collected her make-up, her perfume from James and the cocktail dress that had made even Harry pay attention, and flooed to Hermione's. She already looked happier, running around with a clean towel in one hand and soup for Ron in the other, a muggle mobile phone against her ear as she informed someone that yes, she was definitely going to be there, but it was likely she'd be fashionably late. She hung up when Ginny arrived, and they went into the bedroom to get ready. Ginny ruffled her brother's hair affectionately on the way.

Hermione apologised, and dashed for a shower while Ginny pulled on her dress. Ten minutes later, she twirled for a betoweled Hermione.

"Don't know how you do it," she said. "You've had one more child than me!"

Ginny, for the first time in an age, looked in the mirror and felt _good_. It was a good dress, Marilyn Monroe but green. It showed off her calves.

"Excellent toning potions," she said, grinning. "Do you want me to Sleekeazy's your hair?"

"No, no," said Hermione. "I've got a curl-perfecting potion I've been meaning to try."

Ginny applied it, and Hermione pinned it with rose clips that smelled like real roses. She wrote Ginny the recipe.

Hermione's dress was sophisticated black silk, with a low-cut back. Ginny felt the ghost of memory as she got into their taxi, of the old days when there were celebrations every other week and they'd sweep in together with Harry and Ron beside them. She'd written off the looks they got, in a fit of ego and insecurity, as a symptom of their fame. They'd all been so naive, barely adults, and all the world was looking at them, or so she'd thought. Ginny hadn't once thought not to do what she believed they all expected.

But idle fantasies of what might have been were not something she approved of, not for her. It was quite as self-absorbed as her teenage self had ever been, and she always had better things to do. Happiness did not happen based on what she'd done with her youth; if she'd learnt one thing, it was that you had to make it.

They got out of the taxi in the dark. They stood on a square of pavement at the edge of a country road, not even the faintest suggestion of a party in sight.

"Hermione," said Ginny, "Where on earth are we going?"

"Oh, did I not mention?" said Hermione, that little tug at her mouth again. "Muggle taxis can't get to the Manor. Malfoy said there would be a carriage."

"Oh, we're going to Malfoy Manor? You didn't mention that, no," said Ginny, folding her arms.

"You know what he's like with charity," said Hermione, shrugging. "He's given us the venue free of charge, and he put on the drinks. If it goes well the Ministry will want to do it every year. It's great press for them, lots of pictures of the Minister shaking hands with charities and handing over donation cheques."

"Have you been since –"

"Plenty of times," said Hermione. "Like I said, you know what Draco's like. He's even offered to host the Ministry Christmas Ball a couple of times, but they've always gone with the Auror canteen."

"Buying back respectability, how noble," said Ginny darkly.

"He's not as bad as all that," said Hermione. "I've worked with him, and he really does care about what he does. Oh, look, there we go."

A black carriage was trundling down the lane, horseless, not making any pretense as to how it was powered. An austere man in a black suit helped them in.

The inside was all gilded wood and crushed velvet, and when they got to the dark silhouette of the house, there were even more footmen to take their hands and help them onto the gravel. They walked up stone steps to the open front door in silence, and another man in a muggle suit bowed and led them to the ballroom.

"It's nice," said Ginny, eyes sliding over the white marble staircase, the dark, shadowed ceiling. "But you can feel it, can't you?"

Hermione nodded.

The Malfoy ballroom, however, was warm, bright, magnificent, and very busy. Gold chandeliers hung from a gilded ceiling, an enormous mirror reflected the merriment but somehow brighter, and musical instruments played themselves on plinths around the room. This room exuded not darkness, but warmth and merriment, and Ginny suspected some impressive charmwork. It smelled of spice and honeysuckle, though there was none around.

"Quite a contrast, isn't it?" said Hermione, and Ginny nodded, impressed despite herself. "Malfoy ripped out the old one and remade it. Punch first? Then I'll do a polite round or two, then we can go chat to someone fun and drink until we're silly. And try and see if we can find some of these reported younger men to dance with us."

She smiled her rare, wicked smile.

"You're awful," said Ginny.

"Dancing is dancing," said Hermione, with faked propriety.

The punch was impressive, cascading from a giant cut-glass fountain. She found it relaxed her more than she expected, and it turned out that if they stood beside it the polite rounds came to them. After introductions or greetings to at least two dozen ministry employees and accompanying spouses, Hermione pulled them both over to a couple Ginny knew quite well, a senior Auror and his wife. Then Hermione accepted a dance from Kingsley, and Ginny stood with punch in hand until she spotted Neville, Hannah and Luna handing coats to the doormen. She hugged them all, and after watching a few waltzes Neville asked her to dance. She accepted happily, and Hannah, who'd never liked her, glared daggers.

They talked about but her children's progress in school, how everyone was; pleasant, neutral subjects.

"What brings you here, anyway?" she said, pretending to herself that she wasn't remembering a night of crushed toes and not quite giving her dancing partner the attention he deserved. She'd been such a brat. It felt like an age away, or maybe five minutes.

"The Herbological Society has a rare plant up in the auction," said Neville, with enthusiasm.

"Ah," said Ginny. "Hermione has some House Elf art."

"Ah," mimicked Neville, grinning. "No Harry?"

"Mysterious Auror Business," she explained. "I'm just keeping Hermione company. Ron's ill."

He returned her to Luna shortly afterward, and danced a close waltz with his wife. They stood together while Hermione circled with important old men, and Luna's dreamy smile and fluorescent pink robes kept off most enquirers. Ginny fidgeted, hating to be still, so Luna suggested that they dance together. Ginny could see the sense, but couldn't imagine the headlines.

Instead, she watched Malfoy.

He'd caught her eye first as she was watching Hermione; she was surprised to realise that she'd forgotten Malfoy's face until now. In her memory, he was all pale and ratty, a vague mix of her memories from his youth and her memories of his father and the vague notion of a receding hairline, which was all she'd bothered to make note of from their yearly meetings by the Hogwarts Express. In reality, he looked good in age, distinguished like his father but somehow narrower, with sharper cheekbones and bluer eyes and a good couple of inches extra height. His blond hair was pulled back and tied at his neck, but some of it escaped, softening what would otherwise be a harsh set of features. He had lines around his eyes that Lucius had never had, and when he smiled at his guests it seemed genuine.

Unlike most of the people his age or younger, he was wearing robes. They were distinguished, form-fitting, navy velvet. Ginny thought it was rather unfair that he seemed to be the most attractive man in the room. No wonder he'd done so well in charity work, when half the job was charming people into parting with their money. She could see Mrs Gudgeon practically swooning in his arms.

Ginny went for the punch bowl. She ended up staying there, exchanging her glass for canapes every now and then in an attempt to avoid true drunkenness, smiling at poor, busy Hermione.

Retrieving yet another glass, she ended up face-to-face with Malfoy.

"Slow down, Weasley," he said, his smirk making the name a tease rather than a slur. "You'll be high as a kite. I think someone spiked it with calming potion."

"Calming potion? Why –"

"Oh, I have no idea," said Malfoy airily. "I hear some people say it makes for generous parties."

Ginny stared at him.

"That's appalling," she said, setting down the glass. "And I haven't been Weasley for twenty years."

"Once a Weasley, always a Weasley," said Malfoy, and Ginny searched for the scathing tone but didn't find it. "Where's Potty then?"

"Oh, how old are you, Malfoy?" said Ginny. "He's on confidential Auror business."

"Potter calls me ferret, don't try and tell me he doesn't," said Malfoy, smirking wickedly over his own, spiked glass. "And I suppose what that means is you've got no idea."

Then he gave her a long, lascivious look up and down, and Ginny's shock was matched to her sudden, unexpected flare of pleasure.

"Very rude of him," he drawled. "He ought to watch how long he leaves an attractive woman on her own."

Ginny gaped. Draco smirked, and handed back her glass.

"Drink up, Weasley," he said. "And we'll dance."

"I'm not dancing with you, Malfoy," she said, and she'd meant to sound more adamant – more appalled.

"Yes you are," he said.

"Why don't you ask your _wife_ to dance?"

"I think she's busy," said Malfoy, glancing behind her. Something in his tone made her look too. The blond, serious woman that Malfoy had inexplicably married was talking to a waiter, beautiful, a little dazed, and much younger. They were very close.  
   
"So, coming?" said Draco, his smiling arrogance just a little colder, and it was this that made Ginny concede.

It was only once he'd pulled her close that she realised he'd told her his wife was essentially out of the picture, and she'd danced with him anyway. No, she'd danced with him _because_ of it.

It was as good as an admission.

"So, how is marital bliss working for you?" he murmured, as though he knew what she was thinking. He was a graceful lead, .

Harry had never warmed to dancing.

"Blissful," she said, and she could see the corner of Malfoy's smirk.

"Good for you, you utter liar," he said, and the hand on her waist pulled her closer.

"Get off, Malfoy," she said, panicked at how her heart rate rose, at how obvious it must be that Malfoy was flirting. "People will talk, you know."

"We very publicly hate each other," said Malfoy. "They probably think you're secretly ripping my balls off right this minute."

"I might just do that," said Ginny. "But Harry's the one who publicly hates you. I just think you're an arrogant bastard."

Malfoy laughed in her ear, deep and rich.

"Potter doesn't hate me, he's just got into the habit of acting like it," said Malfoy. "It's a dynamic that works for us. Personally, I think he's been won over by my obvious sex appeal."

Ginny dropped out of their waltz.

"Keep up, Weasley," he said sharply, counting them back in with a nod. "I was joking."

They were quiet for a while. Malfoy was still inappropriately close. He was warm, and every time he stepped forward there was a millisecond of delay in her step that brought his hips far too close. And God, Ginny suddenly wanted nothing more than to spite the man who did not desire her with a man he hated the most.

"I don't think he's into blonds."  she said eventually. 

"Only got eyes for redheads? How Oedipally sweet."

"Dark and handsome, I think," she muttered, too giddy to stop what should have been a secret thought. Not even that. A nothing, a notion that should not have coalesced into anything half as solid as actual words.

To Malfoy's credit, he did not lose his step as she had done. She felt the slow curve of his smirk against her cheek.

"Well, isn't _that_ interesting," he purred. "I suppose it explains why you agreed to dance."

"I only said I think."

Malfoy laughed quietly.

"Alright, Weasley, I'm not going to owl the Prophet," he said. "You've got kids, for Merlin's sake."

Harry never used Merlin as an exclamation. When shocked, he'd always revert to his muggle youth. She found it cute.

The song changed, and Ginny wanted to run, before this went too far.

"Oh, foxtrot," murmured Malfoy. "Know it?"

"Of course," she said, hearing the challenge.

"And Potter doesn't even dance," he scoffed.

Malfoy led her across the room with extraordinary grace. The dance was a bit harder than waltzing, the only thing she practiced often, but she still remembered her grandfather on her mother's side, teaching her to dance. In his opinion, it was a skill all decent wizards knew. Her brothers flat-out refused to join in, except Percy, because he thought it would be important one day.

Of course, a Malfoy _had_ to know how to dance. It was probably a requirement. She could almost imagine him in this room, bored and bratty and young, twirling about with an instructor on the dusty floor as his family dreamt of the Malfoy glory days.

She looked at Malfoy. He locked eyes with her, completely serious, too intense. She swallowed every time he took a forward step.

They'd gone too long without talking. Ginny knew she should end the dance. But there was something in Malfoy's face, and he knew what it felt like to be married to someone who didn't love you in the way you wanted, and she could tell it was horribly obvious how tempted she was.

The song was coming to a close, but Malfoy was still too close. Ginny steeled herself to walk away, but Malfoy's hands tightened and he twirled her backwards with his wicked grey eyes still locked to hers. He led her back until they were at the edge of the dancefloor, in a quiet space in the corner.

He stopped very close, and dropped his hands.

"I think, Weasley, that we are going to go through that secret panel behind you," he said, eyes dark. "And then we're going to fuck against the nearest available surface."

There it was again, shock and adrenaline like _fire_, a burning curl of mutual lust that sprung from nowhere and hung, as hot as molten glass, in the air between their bodies.

She'd thought she'd forgotten how to feel that way.

"Bloody hell, Malfoy," she murmured. "Why would we do that?"

"Because I want to," he said simply. Laughter caught in her throat like panic.

"You arrogant –"

"No," he said, pushing her backwards. "No, that's not what I meant. I want to – of course I do, you're the hottest woman I've seen in a long time and I've not had sex in – actually, I'm not confessing the exact date – but you want to as well, don't deny that you were thinking about it, and that seems like a good enough reason to me. Can you really say you're satisfied right now? We haven't done the things we want, and our partners won't admit what _they_ want, and do you really want to be like them? I want to fuck you, Weasley, I want to make you scream, I want to fuck someone who actually wants it too and I _don't_ want to know that I could have had you and didn't."

He shoved her again, and the wall behind her disappeared, and she would have protested but Malfoy stepped after her and caught her chin.

He kissed fiercely, inconsiderate but skilled, not a moment for permission before there was quick tongue invading her mouth and a confident hand pulling her hips close and another one tangling tight in her hair. It screamed forbidden and wrong, in the dark with the party behind them and with Malfoy, Draco fucking Malfoy, and he was the best kisser she'd ever had.

He didn't bother to let up as he led her backwards, and Ginny wouldn't have wanted him to, not with the heat in her groin and the overwhelming evidence of _want_ pressed tight against her stomach, and the last time she'd actually rutted against a man like this, a man who wanted her, she'd been fifteen and he'd been a boy too shy to act on what he wanted.

Malfoy was going to fuck her against the nearest available surface. He'd said what he wanted, and now he was going to do it.

They stumbled, she hit a door, he fumbled to find the latch and then they were through to a small room which burst to life as they entered, sconces flaring with a heady burst of magic. She thought it might be a study, and Malfoy actually picked her up and carried her to the desk, and she was already wet and ready and he wasn't going to waste any time. He set her down and shoved her skirt up, still locked in a fierce battle with her tongue. Then to her shock and pleasure he slid to his knees, still smiling wickedly as he tore her knickers. The shock made her exhale sharply, then he was smirking and lowering his head and _fuck_, he had a good tongue, hot and wet and quick as his speech, and there was enthusiasm, and that smirk curling against her thighs, and she had absolutely no concern in showing her appreciation with bone-deep moans. And there was heat blooming in her loins and her hips twitched against him and she had the feeling she was begging him to fuck her because like a shot he was stood again, robes off, bare-chested in dark jeans that he shoved down his hips. She shifted closer and he positioned himself with muttered spells – then he looked at her, panting hard, looking as though he wanted to kiss her again, and she thought how absurd it would be to be missish now when she wanted nothing more than a tongue in her mouth and Malfoy's cock inside her.

She pulled him forward by the hair, and his hips snapped forward, and his hands were on her breasts, on her bare back, pulling her forward as he thrust. And she was being louder than she'd ever dared with Harry, every perfect thrust met with her utter fucking appreciation, because she had never had it as good as this and probably never would again.

And Malfoy was shuddering and losing rhythm, groaning _fuck_ and _yes_ and _fucking hell, Ginny_, and she was almost surprised he actually knew her name. But she couldn't think of that, not of anything as a thumb rubbed her clit with single-minded purpose and she clenched tight around him, writhing until she was coming harder than she ever had in her life.

  
Malfoy groaned and flopped forward, twitching into her, and she found herself slipping backwards until her head met the desk. She stared at the ceiling, trying to catch her breath, Malfoy's long hair in her fingers and her whole body tingling.

She felt better than she had in a long time.

Eventually, she looked at Malfoy and smiled. He smirked, and staggered backwards with his trousers still round his ankles until he hit the armchair by the fire.

Ginny laughed. Malfoy, unconcerned by his ridiculous state of dress, grinned back.

She pulled her skirt down and sat up, stretching. Malfoy glanced around.

"This is my dad's study," he said, and laughed. Ginny did too.

It both occurred to them at the same time that _my dad_ meant Lucius Malfoy.

Malfoy looked away.

"I ought to get back," he said. "I'm pretty sure it's bad form for the host to sneak off in the middle of his own party to have adulterous sex with the Chosen One's wife."

"Don't you dare say that," snapped Ginny, before she could stop herself. Malfoy looked shocked.

Then, to her surprise, he understood.

"Sorry," he said. "That's not why I did it. God, like I would be thinking of Potter while doing _that_." A smirk. "Although I'm not denying it's a bonus."

"I know," said Ginny, unoffended, though already she could feel the sickly pull of guilt. Harry loved her. Even if they weren't right or happy, he'd be devastated. She knew he would.

"You're one hell of a woman, Weasley," he said, shaking his head. "You're completely wasted on Potter."

Ginny looked at him, wondering why it felt so good to hear someone say that. Because, she supposed, everyone always thought _she_ was the lucky one. She had the hero.

Malfoy pulled on his robes, smoothed them, then offered her a hand. Ginny took it, attempting to calm her breathing. She _reparo_'d her torn knickers, shaking her head, and pulled them on inelegantly over her heels. Malfoy smirked, and caught her arm.

He tapped the panel. It vanished, and he led her back in darkness.

He stopped, and there was a hand on her face, directing her to his lips.

"If it weren't for this bloody party, I'd happily wait ten minutes and do that again," he said. "I'd resent my obligation, but I suppose then I would never have had the pleasure at all."

His voice was insufferably self-assured, insufferably well-bred. It was nothing like Harry, and she'd happily fuck him again.

"Ten minutes?" she scoffed. "I don't think I believe you."

"Oh, very well, maybe a couple of hours."

"Come on," she said, because she couldn't admit how tempted she was, and they slipped through the door. Malfoy gave her a long look, then visibly retreated into his façade. He swept out into the fray as though nothing had happened.

Ginny swallowed, and went for the punch. She couldn't stop shivering.

After a few minutes they brought out a dais for the auction, and Hermione's House Elf art was as monstrous as she'd imagined. She still bid, and to her surprise so did other people. It sold to a very strange-looking gentleman at the back of the room. Neville got his rare plant, which was apparently too big to be potted, and Luna bought a large collection of strange items from charities Ginny hadn't known existed.

Malfoy's charity was auctioning a mural of children's handprints in rainbow ink. It sold for an awful lot.

She barely said a word the rest of the party, and she couldn't take her eyes off the man she'd fucked. She tried the spiked punch, but she was still shivering with shock as she got into the carriage. Her feet ached. Hermione stared at her all the way home.

*

  
She baked her cake on Saturday, back to the safe routine. She tried not to think. But when she shut the oven door there was total silence, and she collapsed against the table with her mind reeling.

Then the ghost of Malfoy's tongue flared hot against her, vivid and uncontrollable, and she stood up again with shaking limbs.

She begged off Sunday lunch with mum. Hermione knew something was wrong, and Ginny couldn't take the eyes on her.

She worked at home on Monday, and wrote three words, listening all the while for sounds of Harry. The front door clicked at eight-thirty that night, and Ginny was such a mess that she knew she'd have to tell him.

"Hey, light of my life!" said Harry, grinning like a mad thing, and he _never_ said things like that. He hugged her too, spinning her around, and kissed her long and slow as they'd done in the old days. Ginny would have believed in a God then, a God who was punishing her in the worst possible way, until she looked up and saw the _light_ in his eyes.

It was the same light that flared in her chest, every time she failed to forget about what she'd done with Malfoy.

_Bastard_.

How could he? How _could_ he, when _he_ was the one who talked about the importance of family, when he'd made her _miserable_ for so long with his refusal to acknowledge the truth, when he'd _sworn_ he couldn't live without her? Hypocrisy didn't matter to her, because the realisation that _Harry_ could actually cheat on her had hit her like a punch in the gut. Did that mean – had he realised – or did he like women after all, and it was just _her..._

Harry stared down at her, concerned. She realised she'd gone rigid in his arms.

"Are you alright?"

"I feel sick," she said.

"Not still hung over? Hermione told me you went to a party at _Malfoy's, _of all places."

Ginny made a noncommittal noise in her throat. Harry led her down to the sofa. She curled against him, trying to breathe. This was all too much, too much.

"I shouldn't say it like that, really," mused Harry. "Malfoy's alright."

And there it was, that flare of _want_, the one that cut through all the guilt and horror and made her whole body scream for more of Malfoy.

"Where have you been?" she whispered, still clinging.

"I can't tell you," he said, quite cheerfully, without a sign of guilt. "But for once, it's actually something _good_. No dark wizards, no crime rings, just... well, I can't say. But it's good."

Ginny looked up at him, horror fading. Harry was an awful liar. If he thought he was guilty, if he thought he shouldn't be lying, it would be written all over his face. Of course, as an Auror he was different; she'd once overheard an intern saying that he'd seen Harry Potter tell a man his whole family died resisting arrest. The man broke down and begged him to tell him it wasn't true, but he didn't move a muscle, didn't say a word, just handed him the confession. He'd signed it, and the wife and child were in the next room all along.

But no. If Harry seemed guilt-free, he hadn't done anything _he_ thought was wrong. And he knew cheating on his wife was wrong. So therefore... he hadn't cheated.

The release of that was tempered by the overwhelming guilt that rushed to fill the void.

She still had to tell him.

And yet... he still _glowed_. Nothing at work ever made him this happy. She'd never _seen_ this before. And even if he wasn't cheating... that didn't mean he hadn't met someone.

She had to know that first. And once she knew, she'd tell him. Unless it had been too long. After all, it was a one-time thing. Barely ten minutes of ecstasy.

A mistake.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he said.

"I'm fine," she said, and kissed him. He seemed surprised, but he smiled against her lips and kissed her back, and when they'd kissed for a few minutes without stopping, Harry lifted up her shirt.

She ended up on top of him on the sofa, him with his eyes closed, clutching the cushions. She decided to make the most of it by grinding her hips, hitting the right spots, hand sliding to touch herself. Her eyes fluttered closed, and Malfoy was there to meet her, pulling her close, hands on her breasts, hips, everywhere, as though he'd never seen or touched anything more desirable.

To her shock and Harry's, she came with a cry. Harry followed suit with his eyes screwed shut, and smiled for the rest of the evening as if it was his achievement, not hers.

Hers, and and the dark spectre of Malfoy.

They went to bed, and the routine went on. Harry stayed cheerful, and she watched him warily; he never lost that edge of excitement, that _glow_, and spent a lot of time writing letters.

Ginny decided she had to know about that weekend. On the pretence of visiting the Department of Magical Games and Sports, she tracked down Ron.

"Hey sis," he said, sliding into his seat in the Auror canteen. "What are you doing here?"

"Gobstones article," she said off-handedly, pulling a face.

"Bummer," said Ron.

"Yeah," she agreed. "How's Harry's case going?"

"Which one?" said Ron, suspicious in an instant.

"The one that took him away last weekend," she said, shrugging. "I figured it must be big, for him to do that."

"Oh," said Ron. "Sorry, but I've got no idea. When I asked on Tuesday he said he couldn't tell me. What did he tell you?"

"Oh, just that it was really good," she said. "Then we got distracted, and I forgot to ask."

"Right," said Ron, quite rightly not believing her. "Well, I know it was something big. He was talking to the Minister about it. I doubt he'll tell me though, if he hasn't told you."

He gave her a shrewd look. Ginny felt suddenly lighter.

"Alright, Ron," she said. "Thanks. Give him my love, will you?"

"Sure," said Ron, bemused and still suspicious, but she whirled out of the canteen without worrying about him. She noticed, for the first time in a long time, that a few of the Aurors gave her an appreciative eye on the way out.

She felt lighter. It really _was_ a work thing, and this Malfoy thing was no reason to end a marriage, not when they were both happy and the kids were happy and everything was alright. After all that worry, it seemed all she'd needed was a shake-up. It made their relationship stronger.

Then she got into the Atrium, and ran into Malfoy.

It was visceral, animal, the way her body clenched at the sight of him. He saw her, met her eyes, and the world crashed to a halt around her, as though everything stopped when she forgot to breathe. He smirked – never a smile, those lips seemed too wicked for that – and beckoned her with dark eyes. 

She couldn't help but walk towards him. He was standing between her and the floos.

As she got close, his body turned, but his eyes stayed on her. He moved to a floo, and she got in line behind him. He threw on the powder – was he really going to leave without a word? – but then he turned in the fireplace, smirking.

Ginny stepped closer, wondering what he'd do.

"Malfoy Manor," he said, low and deep, and in a flash he'd pulled her forward against him.

They span wildly and fell through the other side, Ginny clinging for dear life. Malfoy laughed, fell, and landed on top of her; before she could shout at him for being so reckless, he'd covered her mouth with his own. 

She writhed, instantly aflame. How could she have thought this was nothing?

"I'll admit, flooing is not the most erotic way to travel," he said, hands either side of her. "But that makes up for it admirably, don't you think?"

"You utter bastard," she said. "You just _kidnapped_ me in the middle of the Ministry atrium! What if someone saw?"

"What if in_deed_," said a voice, and both of them looked up to see Mrs Malfoy, wrapped up in chiffon and lace, standing by the door in shocked elegance with a bone china teacup halfway to her mouth.

"Ah," said Malfoy, getting up, and Ginny was fiery red with shame and guilt. "Yes, well. You've met my mother, Ginny? Good. As you can see, this is the library – nice, isn't it? I'd avoid looking too closely at the books, some of them bite. Sorry mother, must dash, she really should see the rest of the house, don't you think?"

He caught Ginny by the waist. Mrs Malfoy sighed.

"Oh, yes, Draco," she said coldly. "Do give Mrs Potter the _grand tour_. Would you like lilies at the funeral?"

"I don't care," said Draco, equally coldly, before he swept Ginny out of the room.

Ginny stopped in the corridor, and stared at him blankly.

"You can't still – what does she mean, funeral –"

"Banging Potter's wife. Social suicide. Worse, if Potter goes really crazy. But that's only if he finds out, and don't worry – mum won't tell."

"What about _your_ wife?"

"Doesn't live here," he said. "Now, take about ten steps backwards."

Ten steps behind her, Ginny met a door. Draco looked down at her, and it was as though her entire life, every objection she had – it wasn't enough.

"This is ins–"

Draco shut her up with his mouth, and unlocked the door. They fell into a room, and the door clicked behind her, and as long as Malfoy's mouth was on hers and his hand was scrabbling to the front of her jeans there was nothing else worth thinking about.

They fucked wildly on a squeaking leather sofa, and when they fell on the floor they laughed like loons.

*

Ginny had never understood women who cheated. Who would do that, who would sleep with someone else without doing the honourable thing and leaving their partner first? After all, if they were unhappy, why stay? And if they _were_ happy, then what were they doing with another man?

It seemed a painfully simplistic way of looking at it, now. Because how could she hurt Harry, the man she loved but not the man she wanted, the man who fathered her children and knew her so well and who gave her a lot of the things she'd thought she needed? She wasn't going to leave him, not because she'd let herself get bored, not because of their poor sex life, not for anything like that. No, she was not going to shock her friends and make her mother cry and upset her children...

But she didn't know how to give up Malfoy. This was infatuation, obsession, pure and instinctive and sexual, and she _wanted_ that. She wanted to have a man who desired her, who was sexually compatible, and if she couldn't have that in Harry she would take it in Malfoy. And it would be a secret, maybe even forever, until they both got bored and it reached its inevitable end. After all, even if you heard all the time about discovered affairs, who was to say there weren't just as many undiscovered ones? Meetings in the night, people who weren't _quite_ happy, but weren't quite _un_happy enough to justify destroying twenty-five years of their lives?

Yes, it was selfish. She wanted both things, dependability and passion, and she was going to sneak around to keep them both. She knew that, but it was going to have to do, because Malfoy looked at _her_ and wanted _her_ and was even willing to risk life as he knew it to pick _her,_ and she couldn't go back to sinking into the wallpaper again.

Then Harry came home on Thursday night and told her he would be gone for the weekend again.

Her heart stopped, and she cursed herself for thinking that what she'd seen in Harry's eyes wasn't true. Because there it was again, that glint, hopeful and excited, and he probably didn't even _know_ it but he'd met someone else. And it was too much for her to bear, because Harry was supposed to be hers in heart if not in body, and he _couldn't_ destroy everything when she was sacrificing her conscience and more to preserve it.

And worse... she hated the idea that he might not _notice_ he'd met someone. That he might crush his feelings for _her_ sake, for his family, and the object of his affections would let him. Because then his secret unhappiness, the one she knew was there beneath the routine – it would finally be her fault. All these years she'd blamed Harry for his refusal to see what he wanted, but if she didn't give him a reason to look away, why would he ever risk losing what he had?

"Have fun," she said, and insisted upon ironing his clothes before he packed. She knew he'd only put them on wrinkled if she didn't.

As she folded, she wondered who it was. Harry was packing linen trousers and light shirts, so he was going somewhere warm; perhaps he was liaising with a Ministry overseas on some top-secret project. She imagined some attractive Italian Auror, tall, dark and mysterious, what she thought from years of observation might be Harry's type. And maybe he sat too close or embraced too much, and Harry, such a sucker for affection, didn't even notice how inappropriate it was. Maybe there would be sunsets and olive trees and the scent of bloody lemons, and Harry'd think he'd found a new best friend, and he wouldn't understand why it hurt so much to be away from him.

She felt sick. She sent an owl to Malfoy, and the fluttery anticipation distracted her as she finished her folding and went to bed.

She didn't get a reply until Harry had gone the next morning. If there was ever anyone better suited to clandestine affairs, it was a Malfoy.

The note said only one thing. _Come and play Quidditch._

Ginny laughed, an uncontrollable sound that shocked her, and ran to get her gear.

She took Harry's Firebolt Eleven. It had always made her a little sick, that _she'd_ been a Hollyhead Harpy, but they still sent _him _the Firebolts.

Malfoy was waiting for her at the floo, legs up on a desk as he read a book.

"Oh good, you're here," he said, not looking up. "I wasn't sure how you'd decide to travel."

Then he looked up, all his faux-disinterest fading into an infectious grin.

"Come on, Weasley, lets see what you've got."

He picked up the broom at his side, and sprinted out of the room. Ginny followed, laughing, and he led her through the halls of Malfoy Manor to the servant's exit.

He opened the door, jumped on his broom, and shot away.

Ginny wasn't going to settle for that. She followed, and Draco swooped and dived and dodged her grasping hands until he was soaring over a hillock and down into the valley. There was a neat oval of grass beyond, perhaps a little smaller than she was used to, but unmistakeable.

"You have a bloody Quidditch pitch," she said, landing beside Malfoy on the grass.

"I have a bloody Quidditch pitch," he agreed. "Bet Potter doesn't have a Quidditch pitch."

"Screw Potter," she said, and leapt on him.

"I'd really rather screw you," said Malfoy, and rolled her over.

"What happened to flying?" she teased.

"Well, it _is_ the second best thing in the world," said Malfoy, looking entirely too complacent on top of her. "But sadly, good sex is the first, so you're out of luck until I've had my wicked way with you."

"I'm afraid not," she said, rolling him over and jumping up. "You said Quidditch, Quidditch it is. I want to see how well you play with a hard-on."

"Oh, I'm sure I can still beat you," said Malfoy, smirking. "_Accio_ Quaffle! You can be keeper."

Malfoy didn't beat her, so he let her name her reward. Lying panting in the grass afterward, Malfoy rolled onto his side.

"I don't know how Potter scored a Hollyhead Harpy. Did you know I bought your calendar? Obviously I spent a _lot_ of wanking time pretending I was looking at the other girls and not you. But I wasn't."

Ginny swallowed.

"Then my five-year-old son decides he's _got_ to see a game – God knows why, I've found gay porn in his room – although there was straight porn too, so maybe he's just flexible – got his father's good looks, so obviously he's going to be a killer with either gender – what was I saying?"

Ginny laughed.

"You were implying that people who support the Harpies only do it because they fancy them," she said, poking his chest.

"Ah. Was I? Dreadfully sorry, that's not true, obviously, because the Harpies kicked some impressive arse when you were playing. But let's face it, there were always more men in the audience than women. And you girls were... well, you can imagine the dressing-room-based fantasies I had –"

"Sadly untrue. We were all married."

"Like that matters," said Malfoy, with a wicked smile.

"I'm not sure I'm quite ready for jokes like that," said Ginny, and Malfoy apologised with the skilled application of lips and tongue.

Malfoy stayed silent after that, and Ginny stared up at the sky. Her pulse felt fluttery, and she couldn't kid herself that it was just the exercise.

Malfoy thought she was incredible. Not just a bit of alright, but wank-fantasy incredible. And he was happy to admit it to her, to _her_, a Weasley and a Gryffindor and an old enemy. It made her feel girlish, stupidly flattered, and Malfoy knew what he was doing – it _had_ to be charm and seduction, so why did he sound more like a hyperactive child?

Malfoy had a snitch, and he let it go on the court, and they chased it until the sun was high in the sky. Ginny wondered why she didn't play Quidditch any more. She wondered why it was always Harry who took their children to fly. She thought it might be her mother, brainwashing her into thinking that her place was in the home when she should have just followed her heart. Why wasn't she doing this every week, instead of wasting time and money at the gym?

She'd never played Quidditch with Harry. Something they had so much in common, but Harry never took her out, and Ginny wanted to punch something when she realised that he, in his casual arrogance, assumed that he would be better than her.

Malfoy wasn't better than her, but he was good, and it was obvious he didn't care either way. He'd outgrown obsessive competition.

Ginny had never given up competing when it came to Harry, because she was always second best.

"You're thinking about Potter," said Malfoy, hovering beside her.

"Yes," she admitted.

"Quidditch does that to me, too. But fuck him, eh?"

"I'd really rather fuck you," said Ginny, and even if she thought of the best times with Harry, it was utterly true.

Malfoy looked a little blank at that, but she thought it was a good sign.

She ate lunch at the house, and Malfoy gave her a tour, and when they got to his bedroom she couldn't resist the massive bed. There was slow, exploratory sex as the sun went down, comfortable and indulgent and honest, and Ginny felt like she came more times in two hours than she had in her whole time with Harry.

"I'm beginning to see how important this is," she said, when the afterglow faded.

"What is?" said Malfoy, sounding tense.

"Sex," she said. "It may not shock you, but I've never had that great a time with Harry."

"Is it utterly terrible, how gleeful it makes me that I'm better in bed than Potter?"

Ginny couldn't help but laugh.

"You're about half an inch bigger, too," she said, because that bright glee was infectious.

"Please, _please_ tell me you're not flattering my ego," said Malfoy, rolling on his side to gauge her honesty, a light in his eyes. Then he flopped, face in the pillow.

"It _is_ utterly terrible, because I am a thirty-nine year old man who can't help but compare himself to a childhood enemy who is in all probability one of the most deeply messed-up people in the world. It's pathetic, I tell you."

Ginny gave him a look.

"How long have you been thirty-nine, Malfoy?"

"I will be thirty-nine until I am at least sixty," he said, folding his arms over his bare chest. Ginny laughed.

"I don't think it's pathetic," she said. "I had this girl I hated in third year, can't even remember why now, I think she spread nasty rumours about me. I grew up and she slept around and she hated herself, and in the end I felt really sorry for her, but I was still smug for days when Michael Corner said I gave better head."

Malfoy lifted his head from the pillow to cackle.

"If it makes you feel good, you give better head than Pansy Parkinson, Mandy Brocklehurst _and_ Susan Bones," he said. "Oh, and the wife, of course, but _that_ goes without saying, frigid bint. I can count the number of times she deigned to do anything like that for me on, well, my cock."

Ginny laughed until her chest hurt. When the ache subsided, she stared thoughtfully at the canopy.

"Do you know, Harry thought I was a virgin? Not just a virgin, but a _complete_ virgin? Only ever kissed before?"

Malfoy rolled on his side.

"Merlin... _really_? I mean, I could understand it if you were single until him, but – what did he think you _did_ with Corner? Composed love ballads to each other? Had afternoon tea with McGonagall as chaperone?"

Ginny pulled a face.

"I lost it to Dean Thomas. He was so nice, and completely in love with me, and he didn't want to rush me but I was curious and he was really quite attractive, and I wish I'd paid more attention to him because he was... sweet. We only did it once, because everything sort of fell apart after that. I've never told Harry. I've never really told anyone. The girls in my year knew some things, obviously, but when I started spending my time with Harry we lost touch. Probably my closest girlfriend now is Hermione, and she's..."

"Got a stick up her arse?" offered Malfoy. "I get on with her well enough, now I have to see her at all the parties, but she's not _normal_. I thought it was just a Gryffindor requirement, stuffiness, it's not like Weasley – er, Potter's Weasley – was exactly a stud. But _you_ seem normal. Unless you're an anomaly, I suppose."

Ginny was interested to note that Ron was 'Potter's Weasley', not her. She thought she liked not being defined by Harry.

Malfoy stroked her ribs idly. She twitched, ticklish, and Malfoy smirked wickedly and did it again.

"Does that mean..." he said thoughtfully. "Was _he_ a complete virgin? No other girl but you?"

"Yes," she said. "I don't know how that happened. He went out with Cho, and _she_ wasn't a virgin by any means. Hell, even _Ron_ got action at Hogwarts, and he was madly in love with Hermione at the time."

She snorted, memories filtering back to her like dust in the afternoon sun. Malfoy traced patterns on her bare back.

"Harry was really shocked to walk in on them one day," she said. "Ron and Hermione, I mean. He came to me afterward, he was really confused. 'But they're not married yet!'"

Malfoy bit her shoulder to keep his laughter in.

"You are kidding. Please, tell me you are kidding, my heart can't take it."

"He got over it, he's not that naive nowadays," she said. "And it's not really surprising that he grew up like that. I mean, no one told him _anything_. His muggles – er, his family – they pretended sex didn't exist, and there's no sex ed at Hogwarts, and Ron's always had this very manly untalkative relationship with him, so he learnt _everything_ from the Gryffindor boys dorm. And he never looked anything up – though I figure he was always too bit preoccupied with the end of the world."

"I know he was the saviour of the wizarding world, but God, Ginny, did you never look at the boy and think _therapy_? I mean, I'm not exactly – what am I saying, I'm a complete fuck-up, I was brought up by a Death Eater and my ever-effusive mother in the middle of a _really _messed-up war –"

Ginny looked up at him, eyes wide.

"You just... _say_ it, don't you?"

Malfoy looked uneasy.

"Pretty much," he said. "Like I said, therapy. And I have been told, on occasion, that I tend to talk too much. I hope I haven't –"

Ginny tugged on his hair and kissed him stupid.

"I've been told that, at times," she said quietly, breaking for air. "Harry doesn't talk at all. All that stuff, all the war and all the things he dealt with, and those _muggles_... but he never talks. He's cried _once_ in front of me. And I –"

"Don't like it, I'm taking," said Malfoy wryly, wiping an angry tear from her cheek. He ran his hands through her hair.

"You know, if you want to know anything about me, just ask," he said.

"Your father –"

"Ouch," said Malfoy. "You just dive in there, don't you?"

Ginny kissed his pale chest. He had a long silver scar across it, in the shape of an S.

"Sorry," she said.

"It's fine," he said. "I did tell you to ask."

Malfoy looked down at her, an odd mix of Lucius and a kinder man, and traced a finger over her cheek.

"You've got amazing skin," he said. "One day I'm going to count the freckles. With my tongue, of course."

She smiled, and he smirked. Then he looked at his hands and sighed.

"I love my father," he said simply. "He's my father. I imagine that it wouldn't matter if your dad kicked puppies and kittens in front of you, there'd still be a part of you that loves him."

"Yes," she agreed.

"And I didn't know any different. I don't even think he was all wrong. That's precisely why I started the charity, so that wizard children grow up _wizards_, not dumped in the deep end as muggles with superpowers. There's so much the muggles don't know, and I don't care how nice and happy Granger's family are, usually it fries their tiny minds to find out their ickle bitty children are like gods. You know Snape's story, right? Muggle father beats the shit out of them both so he can feel better about how powerless he is. And Potter, with his psychotic aunt and uncle. I love how his biography makes them all bumbling and harmless – yes, I've read it, don't say a word – there's this vision of them, all like bloody Martin Miggs, blustering about with plugs and wheels when we have magic. It's pure propaganda. Muggles are _dangerous_. There's more of them than us, they lash out when threatened, and not so long ago they were burning my family at the stake."

Ginny stared at him. He was so _earnest_, effusive where his parents were cold, and it made sense. She couldn't believe she'd thought the charity was all about the Malfoy image.

"Do you spend much time at the orphanage?"

"It's not been just an orphanage for years," he said. "It was after the war, because there were so many dead or incarcerated, and the Ministry didn't give a toss about Death Eater children. But it's just a children's home now, permanent or temporary, for whoever needs it. We're doing what the the Ministry should have always done – God, in those days there was nothing but law enforcement and cell blocks. They kept bringing us these children, all ages, who'd done magic in front of the muggles and who wouldn't talk about who they were. Scared shitless, can you imagine it? Picked up by strangers for doing something that they couldn't explain, brought into a world they didn't understand at all. All of their stories were the same – they performed their first signs of magic, their muggle parents went through the roof, and they ran away. You wouldn't believe how many muggleborn children we had once we started looking for them. In the end the Ministry gave us money and authority to visit every single muggleborn and mixed-blood family and see if they could cope with what they had when the child was _born_, instead of when they got their Hogwarts letter."

"That's amazing," she said.

"I think so," he said, covering up real pride with faked smugness, and Ginny smiled and idly traced his scar.

"Urgh, don't," he said, brushing her hand away gently.

"Oh, _God_, sorry. Was it –"

Malfoy laughed.

"Nah, _he_ liked things that didn't leave marks," he said darkly. "Strange for a sadist, but I think he never really got over the _magic_ of it. There's another example of why I'm needed, right?"

Ginny curled closer to him, shivering. Draco pulled the cover up.

"No, that was Potter," he said, and Ginny froze.

"_What_?"

"Oh, he didn't mean to," he said. "Like you said, he never did have the sense to look things up. Fuck, that year..."

"Your sixth?" said Ginny quietly.

"Yeah," he said. "It was, well – bad. Really, really bad. And that bastard Snape, he knew all that time, no wonder he was following me everywhere... and he could have told me the truth, I might've –"

Malfoy stopped.

"I might've turned him in to the Dark Lord," he finished, sighing. Ginny flinched against him, gut reaction.

"No, no might about it, I'm sure I would have," he said, looking down at her, watching to see her face. "I would have handed Snape right to him, and he would have died without killing Dumbledore or telling Potter why, and everything would have gone to shit."

"Why?" she said.

"Because he was torturing my family."

She looked up at him. Malfoy was silver and gold in this light, grey eyes reflecting the sun, and Ginny didn't know what to say to him. She thought she knew what she'd do. No, she was sure of it, as sure as she felt the cold band of panic at the notion of her own family suffering. She would have killed to protect them, any of them, and she didn't even have to think about it. Her mother _had_ killed, she'd been able to say those words and _mean_ them, and if Bellatrix had been capable of empathy she would have realised straight away that she'd never had a hope when she picked on a Weasley child.

"I don't think Potter ever thought about that, not as a legitimate reason to side with evil," said Malfoy, laughter dark. "I expect that's because of those muggles again. I imagine there's part of him that would have wanted them tortured."

They lay together in silence, closer than before.

"We should go down for tea," he said eventually. "Though if you want to have it ordered up, I'll understand. You know that dad..."

Ginny shrugged, more casual than she felt.

"I'm not exactly dressed for dinner," she said. "But – I'll eat with him."

She'd known that Malfoy Senior was around. Bedridden, she'd heard. But she'd been able to forget until now, out in the sun and in Malfoy's warm and silken room. Now the thought of sharing the manor with him made her shiver.

Despite this, she thought she might actually want to go down for dinner. She needed to see him – needed to see the man who'd nearly killed her, who'd committed countless sins, who'd produced this arrogant, outrageous, _good_ man that was sleeping with her now. She needed to see the man Draco loved, despite it all.

"Alright," said Draco, and something in his tone said he needed it too.

Ginny got dressed and followed him downstairs. She didn't know quite what it meant. Meeting his parents, it was... so conventional. Except she was married, and she'd be eating with a Death Eater.

"Mother, we've got an extra for dinner," he said, drawing her into the dining room.

"I thought as much," said Narcissa. "How nice to see you again, Mrs _Potter_."

"I'm sure she'd prefer Ginny," said Draco.

"Yes, _please_," she agreed, wincing.

Then she stared at Lucius Malfoy.

He had to be only seventy, but he looked at least fifty years older. He was thin and drawn and a little hunched, long hair more grey than white-blond now, and he looked like he might fall apart at any moment. But his eyes met hers and she could could see him, the Lucius Malfoy of nightmares, watching keenly from the prison of his broken body.

"Father," said Draco, loudly, as though Lucius was slightly deaf. "Father, this is Ginny."

"Sit down, Draco," snapped the man. "So that I can at least see the girl."

Draco moved out of the way. Lucius gave her an appraising look.

"A Weasley," he said. "You realise they are a pack of blood traitors, Draco?"

"Now, now, dear, we don't talk like that these days," said Narcissa. Ginny almost laughed as she realised that Lucius Malfoy, once a marauding terror in a dark war, was now the racist grandfather you politely ignored at parties.

God, it was almost sad.

"Sit down, Ginny," said Draco. "Welcome to dysfunction."

"Draco," said Narcissa.

"Oh, don't tell me it isn't true, Mother," he said.

"You should have some respect for your family," she said. "Especially in front of guests."

"Don't be absurd," snapped Draco. "You're as batty as him. I don't think there's any pretending to do any more, mother."

A House Elf appeared, bearing four plates and a dish of what looked like beef casserole. Narcissa dished out the food in sour silence.

"So you're sleeping with Draco, eh?" said Lucius.

"Lucius, really –"

"Yes," said Ginny matter-of-factly.

"You seem far too attractive," he said. "Are you after his money?"

Ginny laughed, unable to help herself.

"No," she said. "I'm actually already married to Harry Potter, so I'm alright on that front."

Draco choked on his beef. Lucius's keen eyes sparkled.

"What happened to too early?" murmured Draco.

"I like you already," said Lucius.

"You tried to kill her, you know," said Draco conversationally.

Lucius frowned thoughtfully.

"You look too old to be the Weasley girl I gave that diary to," said Lucius. "She was only eleven."

"That would be me," said Ginny.

"Circe, how time flies," he said. "I do apologise."

Ginny, with thirty years' worth of nightmares of Tom, couldn't believe that this was it. Lucius Malfoy had nearly let her vanish out of existence, and he sat here now with a simple apology, as if he hadn't tried to _kill_ every muggleborn in a _school_.

"Perhaps we should change the subject," said Narcissa delicately.

"I'm sorry," said Draco, to Ginny.

"As am I," said Lucius. "I'm sure you don't believe me or care, but I have realised how profoundly... mistaken... I was, in my youth."

"You're right," said Ginny. "I don't care. You can't just _apologise_, and you're not exactly working to atone, are you?"

Lucius laughed, and it was wheezing and weak.

"I definitely like her, Draco," he said. "Do try and take her off Potter, won't you?"

"Don't say that, Lucius," said Narcissa. "He'll listen, and then Harry Potter will destroy his life. Your son's social standing is the only reason you're not in Azkaban, you know."

"Potter's not clever enough for revenge," said Lucius. "Don't let her go to waste. And I know that, Narcissa, you silly woman."

"Why did they –"

Ginny caught herself, for Draco's sake.

"Let me out?" said Lucius. "Unfortunately I seem to be dying."

There was a quiet pause.

"The saddest part is that I can appreciate beautiful women such as yourself with my eyes alone," said Lucius, and Ginny covered her laugh with her hand.

"I don't think she finds your flirting charming, Lucius," said Narcissa.

"I daresay you would have had to settle for eyes alone anyway," said Ginny.

Lucius laughed, cultured but hoarse.

"You're obviously the rose among thorns in your family," he said. "And before you say anything, Cissa, I know I am incredibly rude. There must be some benefit to being old and insane, don't you think, Ginny?"

"I think I've got no idea what to make of you, Mr Malfoy," said Ginny honestly.

"I aim to please," said Lucius serenely.

Ginny looked to her food. The room was silent for a while as everyone ate.

"Draco's a good man," said Lucius suddenly, to Ginny. "Utterly incapable of hiding his emotions, reckless with politics and quite unable to stop himself from openly hating Harry Potter, but a far better man than I. I'm not sure how it happened, I can only assume Cissa's been teaching him morals behind my back –" he gave Narcissa a wicked smile, and he really _was_ charming, because there was a flash of warmth in Narcissa's cold eyes – "But he's a better son than I deserve. I hope you see that the sins of the father are the father's alone."

"I do," said Ginny, who'd never been surer of anything in her life.

"Then I've not done the worst I could do," he said.

And there it was – the truth of the Malfoys, laid out plainly before her. Twisted and wicked, arrogant and cold, wild and dark, they were nevertheless _not_ the most awful family in the world. Despite it all, they still loved each other, and it was partly obscene and partly tragic.

And Draco, to come out of it as he did... to be the man he was now...

Ginny was rather concerned at the emotion in her chest.

Draco finished quickly, and excused them. He led her back upstairs, and Ginny could see that he was shaking slightly.

"Well there you go," he said, leaning against his bedroom door, looking paler than usual in the candlelight. "Having met my mother, you can probably devise some Oedipal theories on why I married that cold bitch Astoria."

Ginny laughed, a tight, sharp sound.

"I don't know what I was thinking," he said. "Subjecting you to them. Except that, maybe I needed you to see them sooner rather than later."

"Why is that?" said Ginny, very quietly.

"I... I don't know. So you can cut and run now. Go back to Potter and have, I don't know, _normal_. Because it's easier if we're not... attached. Not that I'm suggesting that we are. I know my place. But..."

"You're a Malfoy." she said. "And and it's as much a part of you as being a Weasley is part of me. But I don't think that's all we are."

She leapt, and snogged him senseless on the Persian rug.

*

Ginny stayed in Malfoy Manor that night. Malfoy argued it was easier to have luxurious morning sex in the shower that way, but both of them knew it was because they didn't want it to end.

  


  
They played Quidditch again, and stayed out in the grounds all day. Draco showed her the pond – which he steadfastly refused to acknowledge was more like a small lake – and assured her it was perfectly safe to go skinny-dipping in. They did, and it was freezing despite the bright March day, and they ended up crawling onto the diving jetty and blasting each other with their best drying charms. Malfoy went down on her while the sun warmed her skin, and she couldn't imagine why she'd never had sex while staring at the open sky. Malfoy observed that it was probably because she was extremely vocal and therefore needed either a very impressive silencing charm or a man with large tracts of land. Ginny responded by shoving him into the water. Malfoy retaliated by dragging her in after him, and they wrestled rather than swam back to the shore.

Ginny didn't stay that night. Partly because if she didn't leave now, it seemed likely she'd never leave at all.

Harry was back on Monday, and he wasn't glowing any more. In fact, he seemed angry. Ginny wondered how it could have turned sour so quickly, and kept her mouth shut.

But then, then he was packing his bags again and telling her he still had work, and he gone again in a matter of days. He was not even pretending that he was sad to be going now, and her and Malfoy got as far as the nearest desk before they fucked. Malfoy laughed about sex, laughed at the bashed knees and clumsy movements and their tendency to fall off things, and she'd never understood why she'd not done that before.

Another week, and Harry bounced off the walls, and Ginny was more maddened than ever to know who was doing this to him. She began to doubt herself, doubt her intuition – but he was off within three days of returning, and he'd stopped apologising for it.

Malfoy came to the house, and Ginny cooked him dinner and they talked about everything and nothing. At a quarter to two, Ginny suggested bed, and Malfoy looked at her with dark, jealous eyes and told her he couldn't bear to fuck her anywhere she'd been with Potter.

She broke the plates making room for them on the kitchen table.

The next day they spent hours just talking, sat outside on Ginny's lawn. They both favoured the open air, even with the chill spring breeze. Ginny talked for hours about boredom and loneliness and the things she wished she'd done, and Malfoy told he of all the things he'd done to fill the gap where his marriage ought to have been.

She knew that it had to be partly the pleasure of the forbidden, that she didn't _really_ get on better with Malfoy than she ever had with Harry, but she still wished that he was a little more the brat she remembered. Because then it would just be sex, just indulging a basic need, and she wouldn't have this horrible panicked fluttering deep in her chest that she couldn't acknowledge.

Harry came back broken, defeated. She sat on the sofa with him and patted his hair, and he made cryptic comments about his mission.

"He won't listen to me," he said. "It's so difficult. _He_'s so bloody difficult!"

Trust Harry never to go for something easy, she thought.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I've not been here for you much."

"It's fine," she said. "You don't need to worry about me."

"I do," said Harry. "I'm not exactly the best husband, am I?"

He patted her thigh, and she was surprised. Admitting that sounded a little like a confession. A small, veiled one, but it was a step.

He kissed her then, and Ginny froze.

"I'm sorry, Harry, I've got an awful headache," she said, and ran upstairs with the panicked fluttering rising to a full-blown crisis, bile rising and pure _fear_ in her heart. She wrapped herself in the duvet that smelled of her and Harry, clutching hard, eyes tight shut.

She didn't care that Harry was still in England; the second he left for work that morning, she began her hunt for Draco. She phoned his office, and the receptionist told her he had a meeting with the Minister and he'd be back in an hour; she went to the Ministry with her notebook clutched to her chest, and paced the corridor.

When the third person asked her if she was lost, she hid in a dark, empty cupboard, and bit her nails instead of pacing.

Malfoy emerged, mercifully alone, and she dragged him in as he passed and kissed him fiercely.

"Weasley, I really hope that's you," he said, in a quiet voice. "And dear God, if it's not Weasley, forget I said that."

"It's me," said Ginny. She could feel his sigh against her chest.

"Sex in the Ministry, eh? Beds and desks and kitchen tables getting stale already?"

"I just –" said Ginny. "I just needed to talk."

"In a cupboard?"

"Anywhere," she said, low and despairing, and kissed him hard. And she was glad for her recent exercise, because bracing herself against the wall was rather more athletic than she realised, and she didn't know what she'd do if she couldn't fuck him there and then. She could tell he knew there was something wrong, because he wasted no time, asked no permissions. It was quick and dark and rough and perfect, because she was going to feel it afterward, the nails in her skin and the way Draco thrust hard enough to bruise and the vicious, biting kisses. She'd _feel_ it, and she'd remember the reason for doing what she was going to do.

They stood panting afterward, and Ginny heard the sound of Draco doing up his jeans.

"You're going to tell him, aren't you," he said flatly, and Ginny nodded even though it was dark, and she realised she was crying.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sure it won't be – like your mother thinks. I don't have to tell him it's you."

"It's okay," said Draco. "You can tell him. I always knew you would."

"Then why..."

"Obvious," said Draco. "Because I wanted you too much."

Ginny sobbed a laugh.

"We're in a cupboard, and I've no idea what's going to happen when Harry gets home, and I'm about to wreck a twenty-year marriage, and I just had sex outside the Minister's office. I think I'm insane."

"Perhaps we should leave the cupboard," said Draco solemnly. Ginny hiccoughed a laugh against him, and wiped her eyes on his shirt.

"Urgh, Weasley germs," he said, and Ginny laughed.

She left the cupboard first. Then she looked back at Draco and laughed.

Draco gave her a smirk, and stepped out.

"I have to ask, Weasley," he said, brusque as though the past ten minutes hadn't happened. "Why now?"

Ginny had been dreading that question, because to answer it would be to cross a line she'd never meant to cross. But Draco thought like her and talked like her and fucked the way she liked and really seemed to think her brilliant, not just a perfect wife but a perfect woman.

"Because I kissed him and it felt like cheating."

Malfoy went blank.

"Oh," he said flatly. "Well, if you'd said that first."

"What?" said Ginny, surprised she could get the words out.

"I would have said fuck the cupboard and we can do it right here," he growled, and pinned her to the wall.

Draco's mouth on hers was hot, wet, rough, ferocious, and he ran his hands over her as desperately as if he'd not come two minutes ago, as if he was starving for her touch. When he broke the kiss he was breathing as though he'd been fighting.

Ginny thought her legs might give in on her.

"Are you alright?" he said.

"Yes," she said. "No. I need... I don't think I'm ever going to be ready for this."

"Allow me to escort you to the floo," he said, and even with his breath coming short he sounded smooth.

"You prat," she said, and leaned against him like her life-support. She didn't care who saw any more.

But then she had to watch him spiral away.

*

  
She'd run through everything twenty times by the time Harry got home, and she'd run out of things to scrub until they shone. She felt sick with panic, and he'd taken one look at her face and made her sit down on the sofa. She didn't want to speak. She didn't want to say anything. It was stupid, just stupid to do this, but she was in love in a way she hadn't dreamt was real. She hated herself. Harry would hate her too.

"We need to talk," she said. Harry's concern visibly jumped.

"What is it? Are you ill?"

He tucked her hair behind her ear, an affectionate gesture that was rare, for him.

"No," she said, flinching away. "It's about... us."

"What about us?" said Harry, tone dropping flat.

"I need to ask you something."

"Anything, you know that," said Harry, searching her face for meaning. She didn't think he'd ever found it there. "Come on, Ginny, you're scaring me."

"Are you really happy?" she said eventually.

"What? Yes, yes of course... what sort of question is that? Of course I'm happy, madly happy, I have a wonderful wife and beautiful children and everything I could ever want."

He hadn't even attempted to think about it. Ginny wanted to hit him, for being so blind, even when she'd been just as blind herself for thinking that this was enough.

"I don't think that's true," she said. "I don't think you've got everything you could ever want, and I don't think you're happy. And even if I did believe you, _I'm_ not happy, and it's been like this since... for too long. Possibly always."

"Oh, God, Ginny, no," he said, face ashen. "I am happy, I'm so happy, and I thought you were too, if I'd known we could have –"

"No, Harry. You don't love me the way you think you do, and I don't want the things I thought I wanted."

"Are you mad? I love you, I love you more than anything, you must know that, you and the kids are my life –"

"And we still can be," she said. "Just not... how it is now."

"What do you want? What have I done wrong? Just tell me and we can fix this, I know we can –"

"Do you really think you want to?" said Ginny. "Really, truly, honestly? I've not dared to imagine anything other than this, but I've been going slowly mad and I didn't even realise."

"Gin, no..."

Harry had that look, the one that made Ginny want to wrap him up and protect him from the world. It wasn't the same feeling as love.

"Harry," she said softly. "About this project..."

Harry blinked.

"Is _that_ what's upset you? Because I wish you'd said before – I could have come back nights, apparated or something, if he wasn't so _difficult_ –"

"No," she said. "This thing, wherever you're going, whatever you're doing... it's important. I can tell. Really important. And if you had to choose between me and it – me and him – if I told you you could never _ever_ have anything to do with him –"

"You," he said, then stopped.

"_You,_" he groaned, closing his eyes, hands clasped in a plea to himself, and when he opened his eyes they were a maelstrom of green-lit guilt.

"That's not everything," she said. "There's another reason why I'm saying this now. A bigger one."

She could see before she spoke, see the moment he realised what she was going to say. And it was torture to do this – to see every emotion creep slowly across Harry's open face, shock and horror and disgust and fear and shame and confusion, clouding those bloody beautiful eyes and adding years to his frame. And she'd never realised, but there weren't the words for this. There was the cliche, and there was nothing better. Certainly nothing kinder.

"There's someone else."

"Oh," he said, and what his words lacked his face betrayed. "Who?"

Ginny took in a quick breath of air. She was breathing so irregularly, she thought she might faint.

"Does it matter?"

"You're leaving me. For him. Yeah, it bloody well matters."

"He was just a catalyst, Harry. It's not his fault. Maybe it's mine, but I – I'm so – "

"_Who?_" he growled, and there was the Dark Harry in his eyes, the one she always pretended wasn't there. It was easier to think of him as a sweet man, a man who needed her, when she couldn't see that deadly inner fire.

Just another thing that was wrong.

"Malfoy," she said, all in a rush, and she knew that spark of light and hope and love had flared as bright as shining a lamp in Harry's face.

"Fucking hell," he said. "The ferret?"

"He's a ferret and a good man," she said. "And he wants me. Desires me. Don't try and tell me you desire me, Harry, because I know you don't. You want to have me, you want your family, but you don't want _me_. It's never been about me. I'm just... your happy ever after plan."

"That's not true," said Harry brokenly. Ginny put her hand on his.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she said. "I think – I think I need to go now."

"To _him?_" he snarled, snatching his hand away. Ginny shook her head.

"To my family," she said. "To mum." Because Harry would need Ron and Hermione. "Just think about what I've said, alright?"

She rose, chest aching as though he'd hit her. She dared not imagine what Harry felt like. She managed to get to the front door without falling.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now?" yelled Harry from the lounge, and a cushion hit the door with a thud.

"I can think of one thing," said Ginny. "Go back to your project."

Ginny closed the door, and apparated with an echoing crack.

*

She wrote a letter to Malfoy from her mother's, telling him where she was and what had happened. Malfoy wrote back telling her that he wasn't going to contact her for at least a month, because she was going to need time, and because he'd never thought this would be something but it was, and if he was going to have her he'd damn well do it properly. He'd owl and ask her out on a date, and if she didn't feel ready he'd wait another month and ask again until she wanted to. And then there would be no sex until at least the third date, because _Witch Weekly_ told him that was proper.

Ginny figured he'd written that last rule to be broken.

  


Harry wrote from Italy, and the letter was addressed to the kids. It was loving and reassuring and Harry was a brilliant father, and Ginny wished that there was some way to make all of this easier. There was a scribbled note in with it, saying she should look it over to see if she wanted to add anything and send it to them before the tabloids found out. She took it with her to Hogwarts and told the kids in person in McGonagall's office. She brought cake, and wondered if she'd ruined their ability to enjoy it ever again. There were so many minefields when it came to parenting, and she didn't know how to avoid them all but she'd tried and now she was going to set one off deliberately, and she was almost ready to change her mind because there was nothing more dreadful, more wretched, than hurting her children. If anyone else had dared, she'd have ripped their heart out, and it felt much the same even as she told them it changed nothing. Lily and Al both cried, but to her surprise Scorpius was sat outside the office waiting for them. He hugged Al, told him it was better this way, he knew it was, because his parents kept pretending even though they weren't happy and it sucked. Ginny thought of Malfoy, and wondered if Scorpius liked men or women or both or maybe just Al, and worried about whether he would like her as a step-parent.

  


A month later, she read in the newspaper that Severus Snape was alive, well, and living on an island off the coast of Italy. Ginny thought of sunsets and olive trees and tall dark men, and laughed until the sound was more like crying.

Malfoy threw the paper at the wall, and called Snape a bastard. She didn't think it was for her sake. She didn't think he meant it.

The next day, there was a photograph of Harry, bronzed and smiling, his arm hooked determinedly around Snape's. Malfoy looked at the picture, called Snape a fucking bastard, and curled up on his bed with his hands around his knees.

"Bet he's got no idea I'm going to kill him," said Malfoy. "I thought he was _dead_, and all this time..."

"Harry's in love with him," said Ginny.

Malfoy looked at her, and then at the photo, and he laughed like a loon.

"Dirty old bugger," he said, when he could breathe again. "Well, I suppose I shouldn't kill him then. I've already got his wife, I can't take his lover too."

Ginny felt a twitch in her gut at the idea. _Harry's lover._

Then Draco pinned her down and kept her there while he attempted to make good on his words in the ballroom that night, the promise that he would make her scream. Ginny thought she was quite loud enough, but he informed her with a straight face that he wouldn't be satisfied until she was wailing like a banshee.

Ginny hit him with a pillow, and let him keep trying.

She decided, after Harry had been in the country a month and they'd barely spoken, that she needed to go round. Most of her stuff was at Malfoy Manor now, but it was nearly summer and they needed to make plans. She didn't think he'd like the idea of being a weekend dad, but a week felt awfully long when it was one of so few they had.

She apparated to the front door that had been hers for twenty years. To her surprise, someone had painted it green. She knocked, throat tight, but there was no reply. She went to peer into the kitchen window.

Harry was lying on the kitchen table in nothing but an open shirt, and Snape was fucking him.

Ginny felt her stomach lurch, a lingering feeling of horror and betrayal, nonsensical and irrational but still there. But Harry wasn't hers, never had been, and Snape – Snape could have him. It was _okay_. The man who _was_ hers was the one she wanted, and Harry was finally getting what _he_ wanted, and it was all so much better than the picture-postcard she'd had.

Harry looked like nothing she'd ever seen. He was still bronzed from Italy and shining with sweat, golden and muscled and rigid with pleasure. His head was thrown back, and he was biting his lip as though the pleasure was too good to bear. His green eyes were wide open. Snape was skinny and pale and scarred of course, but there was something about his face, rapturous, _ferocious_, and he was clawing at Harry's hips in a way that made the ghost of Draco's nails graze across her skin. There was crockery all over the floor.

She went back to the front door, and decided to write a note.

    _Dear Harry,_ she wrote.

_Just popped round to talk, but obviously you are busy. I was thinking alternate weeks for the summer, but if you have a better plan let me know and we can talk about it. I thought we could pick them up from the station together. If you want to, we should have some days together too. But if you don't want to see me, I understand._

By the way, you might want to close the blinds next time. It would be a shame to go so many years refusing to do that naked calendar only to give people an eyeful for free.

Snape: you'd better be good to him. I can tell he's mad about you. Something about all the plates on the floor._ Oh, and write to Draco! I know it's been a bloody long time since the war but that doesn't mean it's all gone. I would have thought you'd know that better than anyone. And you wouldn't believe how glad he is you're alive._

Probably not as glad as Harry is, by the looks of it.

                Love,  
                    Ginny

She posted it, and Apparated home to Draco.

She had the sudden urge to break some crockery.

  



End file.
